


Killing Is A Forte

by F_S



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-06-02 04:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F_S/pseuds/F_S
Summary: The zombie apocalypse has arrived, and Jack Marston is the entirely too unwilling hero. Luckily he's got his very own side-kick! A nameless undead who Jack christened Mr. Corpse - he can't talk much but manages to nag Jack about stupid shit all day along, he's the worst swimmer Jack's ever seen, a bit of a prude, unfairly good with horses and an unbelievable shot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An old piece of work I wrote back in red dead redemption days. It has been languishing happily on FF.net but I decided to bring it over because I'm pretty keen on writing more for it now that I've finished up red dead redemption 2.

It was raining hard. Bloody hard. The wet cowboy was currently stalking through the flooding marshes near Thieves Landing, checking his guns and ammo belts were strapped on well while scanning the dark and foggy landscape. Anything could attack at anytime. Cougars, outlaws, cannibals, idiots with guns, cannibals with guns... even the ghosts this area was legendary for.

Ghosts with guns.

"See how the name got picked," Jack sneered to himself as he looked around the Ghost Forest, every tree trunk looking like a person, the heavy fog and rain masking what lay in the shadows far too well. The only sound that managed to be heard over the driving rain was the singing and croaking of millions of frogs. It was so deafening the twenty year old couldn't even hear his own ragged breathing. Having only just escaped Thieves Landing alive, Jack's heart was still pounding with adrenaline.

And also fury - those bastards! Fancy shooting at him when he had just single-handily (probably) saved their arses!

Rushing a bit faster now that he was done fumbling with his many buckles, Jack swore as his boots slipped out from under him and growled loudly the entire fall down the bank, splashing into the shallow swamp river with a vulgar string of curses muffled by the muddy water he was currently under. Jack rose from the creek slowly, wading across the waist high water and angrily pulling tangled weeds off from where they had wrapped around him as he marched up the other side. He slipped again and spun his hands wildly as he tried to say upright - luckily he managed to grab a crocked branch in time.

The cowboy cursed the silvery-grey and disgusting slimy soil that made it nearly impossible for the desert dweller to get out of the swamp. Jack looked down at the ground as he tried to search for footholds in the bank. As he did, a lillipad peeled off from where it had been on his hat and flopped sadly down to land at his feet.

He watched it for a little while in defeat.

What a miserable situation he had found himself in. Groaning, Jack attempted to climb up the slippery bank again, this time with far more success. Breathing in a huge lung full of air, Jack tried to regain his senses as the rain drove down on him, making the brim of his hat shudder constantly with the vibrations of their impact.

Jack scowled and marched off in what he assumed was the correct direction. Pleasingly, in a matter of mere minutes Jack stumbled upon a trial which he recognised and followed it out of the Ghost Forest and into the Great Plains. The rain was a real pain, but Jack couldn't really find it in himself to hate it. It had been a long time since the last good rains. A blissful smile grew across Jack's face as he tried to imagine the heavy rains over Beecher's Hope, watering his land, the dusty ground doing a poor job of soaking it up in its shock of being wet. The brown shades of the grass will blossom green within days of the storm. The few cattle he had tentatively started to introduce back onto the farm would grow nicely.

Jack usually didn't mind walking. Sometimes he would get down off his horse and spend a good hour walking along beside it if there was no rush. But tonight was different. He was edgy, hand resting on his holstered gun every minute or so. His eyes scanned the horizon relentlessly. For what? He didn't know or even understand. Anything really. Right now it felt like everything was trying to kill him.

Jack listened intently for gunfire or screams or... anything. But just like before, nothing could be heard over the roar of the almost tidal rainfall.

His boots sloshed through the growing puddles, relaxing into the swagger he was used to. Managing to stop with his paranoid twitches, Jack concentrated on getting home. For sure, with his usual large stride and rather quick step, he should be home within two hours.

Logically Jack knew it was early morning right now, at the gentle period of time just before the full sun rose above the horizon. It certainly didn't look like it, but it was. His pocket watch was grubby and old but dutiful in its time keeping.

It's a shame - he had really wanted to get some good sleep in before the day.

He'll take a little nap once home, then make himself busy until nightfall and sleep a good and healthy night all the way through.

Yeah right.

Ever since he started to travel near three years ago sleep has been to Jack what humbleness is to the new American people. But he had hoped returning home to the farm, healed enough to stand the sight of the place, would fix that.

So far it has not.

As he crests the top of a rise, Jack sighs deep and content through his chest. Even though the heavy rain and the black night hid it from view, Jack knows that from here the distant silo of his barn was just visible above the tree line. Confident he knew where he was now, Jack stopped following the road and walked into the tall grass, striding out into the wild plains with nay a care. He would be a fool to think that there was anything more dangerous out here than him. Not with his five guns, knife, and a random stick of dynamite he had been carrying around since a rather hair raising adventure with a pair of particularly ugly miners.

Besides, all the wild animals are tucked up in the driest spot they could find right now.

He walks in soggy silence for a time, boots squelching with all the pond water and the tadpoles that filled them back in the marshes. Under his clothes and nails he could feel the mud drying. It was not the worst he had ever suffered, but it was not the best either.

Lighting started to strike as it tended to do across the Great Plains and Jack was struck by a fondness so sad he stopped.

This was his first storm since returning to the farm. The flashes of beautiful light lit up the farm he trusted was there all along, the arch way onto his land looming closer than he'd expected, actually.

Hurdling his own fence Jack deflated in relief as his very own precious, and more importantly warm, farm house came into view.

Climbing his own steps and opening his own door (you can tell he is still knew to this home-ownership thing) Jack paused and frowned. He was sure that he left the door open.

It must have blown shut.

Shrugging it off Jack kicked his boots off by the door before heading to the bathroom, socks slapping against the wooden boards. Peeling off his drenched coat and chucking his handy-down hat onto the bathroom's tiled floor. Jack jumped when he caught a sight of himself in the dirty mirror.

He didn't even recognise himself. Maybe those people had been within their right minds to try and shoot him. He looked ghastly. Jack knew he hadn't seen himself in a mirror for nearly a month, but he hadn't realised he looked this bad. Shirtless, he looked frightening, large bruises lined nearly his entire rib cage, black in places and outlined in sickly yellow hues. It was like he had been hit by a train.

Might as well have. Jack thought bitterly. It had hurt just as much.

Gingerly he peeled back the bandages that wrapped around part of his torso, the deep and weeping wound from where a boar's tusk had dug into him. But while these wounds looked bad it was the smaller but more numerous injuries that really made up his horrifying image. Scratches and burns and small gashes as well as whole sections where his skin had been torn to shreds. Jack bitterly inspected them for the first time under the bathroom light. What else did he expect after being dragged along the ground after a galloping horse? A smile came to Jack's lips as he remembered how he dealt that particular idiot.

You would think the aggressive rain would have done something to clean him off, but layers of grim and mud still coloured him so much he looked almost disfigured. With wet hair plastered to his head and a whole months worth of hair growing from his face, Jack reckoned he looked like he had just crawled up from the grave.

He smirked at his reflection, a tasteless joke bouncing around his head as he started banging through the cabinet and drawers looking for a razor and any medicines his mother might have left behind... somewhere. He had purged the entire house of his parent's belongings, but maybe there was a bottle of soothing syrup or cocaine stashed in a corner.

That's when he felt it. He had just enough time to stiffen and grab the razor he'd just laid eyes on before he heard the hoarse voice of whoever was behind him.

"Drop... the... razor," they said in a strangled, almost struggling sort of way. If Jack was not mistake, which he usually wasn't, that was a barrel of a gun he felt against his head. Jack dropped the razor and made no other move.

"What ... are you doing ... in my house?" the stranger asked. Jack's left eye twitched a bit at that comment.

"You're house? This is my house you fucking idio-" Jack's angry and rather badly thought out retort was cut short when the other guy used his free hand to slam Jack's head into the edge of the basin.

"Fuck!" Jack yelled as his hand went to cradle his forehead. Jack snarled when he pulled his hand away to see it covered in fresh blood.

"Can I not get a break this week!" Jack cried out in anger as he turned to glare at his attacker. Great... it was one of those decomposing ones. "Argh, what, another one? Where did you crawl out from, you sorry piece of shit?!" he cried, flinging his arms out in exasperation. The corpse suddenly looked very confused.

"Why are you in my house?" It asked him. Jack pressed his hand to his head again and stopped crouching in favour of sitting completely down on his but. He did it in an attempt at making the corpse lower his guard, which was exactly what he did. Pulling his gun from his belt faster than a man could blink, Jack had it trained on the corpse's face, sure to get a clean kill shot if he were to just pull the trigger.

The corpse had no reaction at all. Jack couldn't help but chuckle dryily at the turn of events.

"Look don't go thinking your immortal because you've been resurrected or whatever. I've put down a few of your kind tonight already," he said before distractedly pressing his free hand to the throbbing spot on his skull. He could feel a few trails of blood running down the side of his face. "Fuck!" he hissed as it seemed to increase in pain randomly, not caring about his poor mother who was probably turning over in her grave right now. Probably his father too for that matter, he had always made sure never to swear in front of that guy the few times he was actually around. Pfft what an idiot that guy had been... wait a minute.

Corpse guy... telling him to get out of his house...

Jack suddenly stood up in one smooth motion, now suddenly too focused on looking at the details of the corpse while keeping his gun aimed. He was pretty well rotted, Jack wasn't exactly an expert on aging corpses but it looked like twenty or so years of decay on his guy.

No, this couldn't be him. His shit head dad only died three or so years ago.

He must have been the previous owner before his father took the land over. Maybe he could convince the guy to work on the farm? Did the undead need to eat and sleep? He could make for a good ranch hand if not.

Hm.

/// Earlier that Day ///

If he just hadn't of stopped to pick those flowers then he wouldn't have been gorged by that boar, and he could have been on his merry way back to Armadillo. He could have been nice and comfortable in the saloon, a full belly and playing poker with the local no hopers - and earning a small fortune while doing so. But no. He just had to have those Prairie Poppies. Good going Jack. Really living up to your name as the roughest, toughest bounty hunter to ever grace this goddamned state of New Austin.

Jack likes to keep his reputation mysterious, or at least undefinable. Was he bad or was he good? Who knows. He was rough as guts and tough as nails and merciless and that's all that matters. Such mystery helped a lot when injured in a place like Thieves Landing, groaning and sweating and walking worse than the hopeless drunks that infested the town. The idiots and outlaws that populated the place gave him a wide berth. Jack leaned on the strong shoulder of his horse when he felt himself swaying and beginning to fall.  
Once the doctor administered his crude treatment and boiled him some pain soothing tea to drink, he was kicked to the curb to make room for the steady stream of drunken men with gunshot wounds and broken bones.

Doctors made good business in Thieves' Landing.

At least he knew he had a place to stay the night. The pig farmer was always happy to rent the shit hole room above the pig sty to the traveler too paranoid for the saloon.

Jack thanked the gods as he hitched his horse by the dangerously leaning shack. The pigs eyed him more mutinously than usual as he crept his way up the stairs.

Yes, crept, not struggled.

The quiet room and modest bed that awaited him in the attic was worth the struggle - ah, the creeping, that was. For the first time he couldn't even find it in his heart to mind the smell from the pigs.

Collapsing into the cot squeezed in the corner of the room, Jack stripped and tried to block out the loud pounding of his heart that seemed to rattle and echo all around his skull. Sometimes the pain became so intense that his vision blurred into the familiar red haze. He would cover his eyes with his arm then. Trying to breath deep and make the red sight go away. He wanted time to go faster not slower.

Around midnight the pain had started to settle, or at least, Jack had become used to it. He slept fitfully for a few hours before screams woke him up.

Screams weren't uncommon in Thieves Landing. But there were a lot of them. Jack had at that point struggled to sit up and look out the grimy windows of the attic.

"Hey! That's my horse!" Jack shouted when he saw a drunk old man struggling onto the bare back of Jack's horse. Jack lunged for the door, forgetting his bruised ribs, and stumbled down the first few steps with a mean scowl.

"Get down off my horse you fat bastard! I'll shoot you in your fucking ugly face if you don't fuck off right back the way you came as-" however, the man seemed more afraid of something else because he paid no mind to the shirtless Jack, but screamed at him one word.

"Run!" the drunk bellowed in a high pitched squeal rivaling the fussing of the pigs as he savagely pulled on the rope loped around Jack's horse's and kicked it wildly. Almost instantly the dumb animal got what the man was doing for (what the hell, it always did the exact opposite of what Jack wanted it to do?!)

"You fucker!" Jack bellowed as the thief and his traitorous horse thundered away.

Racing back inside Jack grabbed his guns and items. This was exactly why he hated buying horses. They listened to any old idiot that climbed onto their back. Wild mustangs who practically tried to kill anyone who came near them where what Jack preferred. He hurriedly put on the clean cotton pants that he had bought from the doctor.

Jamming his feet into his boots, he leaned over to fetched his hat, threw on a jacket that he didn't bother buttoning up, found his trusty repeater, and buckled on his belt full of bullets. Confident that the rest of his items would be safe inside the attic Jack took off after the horse thief. Like hell he was getting away with that horse - he'd only had the thing for a week.

(A week was practically a horse-owning record for young Jack)

Jack raced down the stairs and jumped on the first horse he saw. A dark brown and rather skinny looking animal that was standing under a tree out in the rain. It looked aimless and panicked. Jack wondered if it had wondered here after getting separated from its owner. It was likely, men quickly meet violent ends in his part of New Austin.

The horse's saddle was slippery and squeaking from the rain, Jack grimace as he realised there was no blanket between the saddle and the horse's back. He briefly worried around the animal getting burns, but put it out of his mind, vowing to fix it later. Right now he needed to track the bastard down before he got too far out of town. The wet mud made good for tracking, but the worsening rain was washing them away quick.

"On you go, heiya!" Jack shouted as he gathered the reins in one hand and held his gun in the other. Digging his heels into the horses ribs softly as he tried to gauge the animal's obedience levels he was please to find that it was well trained, which was a rare luxury when it came to Jack Marston and horses.

Jack pulled its head around in the direction he wanted to go and eased into the saddle as it quickly increased its speed, the tone of Jack's voice having more of an impact than whips ever could. As they cleared the buildings of the town, Jack couldn't believe his luck as he spotted his horse in the near distance.

Galloping up the wide trail towards it Jack trained his gun on the drunk horse sealer. But as he closed in a scene unfolded that - quite frankly - shocked him.

"Seven hells," Jack whispered in disbelief, bringing the horse with no saddle blanket to a halt. The man was there alright. He seemed to have fallen. It was so dark it was hard to make out, but his horse was scared out of her poor mind. She would jump in fright and was quickly backing away, and as she did this, it became obvious that the drunk's hand was wrapped and knotted around the lead rope. His lifeless fat body was dragging along the ground after the horse.

But that wasn't the disturbing part.

As the body was dragged along by the freaked out horse. It became clear to Jack that the dark mass was not just the fat man, but also a lady, leaning over him and... chewing... into his neck and tearing chunks of flesh away.

"Argh..." was all Jack could say as he watched the scene with raised eyebrows. Quickly he got down off his horse and trained his gun on the feasting woman.

"Ma'am?" Jack asked hesitantly, wanting to know if maybe she had an easy explanation for such behaviors. Though he highly doubted it. She froze and her blood stained face (and hands and chest and...she was drenched in blood) snapped up to stare at him. She made a crazed sort of screaming yowl before leaping clumsily over her meal towards him.

"Okay." Jack commented calmly as he shot her through the head. Working quickly he pulled the drunk man's hand from the tangled rope and winced when he realised the wrist had been broken and snapped so badly it nearly faced the entirely wrong direction. His horse was breathing better now, calmer with the feasting woman gone and a familiar rider at her side. Jack climbed back onto the borrowed horse's saddle and quickly set about riding away from the scene, leading his original steed along side, one hand on the reins and another crooked through the rope looped around his mare's muzzle. It enabled him to keep her close, and the two horses seemed to be finding bravery in each other's presence.

Who knew what was going to jump out at them next.

He looked around, fretful of anymore bloodthirsty people picnicking about on the road. This was too close. Thieves Landing was not even a mile down the road, he could still see the bridge clearly. If she was this close she must have friends, to be this confident. Jack shoot his head and concentrated forward.

"Damn cannibals" he said to the two freaked out horses, "getting bolder and bolder". His horse was really getting worked up, kicking every fourth stride and foam coming from her mouth even though Jack knew it couldn't be from overwork. Quiet plainly scared out of her wits. Jack grumbled to himself and tried to draw her closer. Now that they were nearing Thieves Landing again, Jack could heard the screams once more. Too many screams. Quite a few of them, Jack realised in horror, sounded like the absolutely feral screams of the cannibal lady.

Had a large group of cannibals descended upon the town? Jack dropped his hold of his mare and readied his gun. He quickened the no-saddle-blanket-nag's pace with a rapid tapping of his heels. Jack's mare continued to stick to their side despite not being held anymore.

Well, good training paid off _sometimes_ , Jack sourly thought.

As they rode back into town, he now saw what he had missed earlier. It was dark and raining, plus it was Thieves Landing. There was always bodies in the street and a gun going off somewhere. Maybe his pain had dulled his senses, maybe he had been thinking too fast or riding too fast before to properly focus on what was happening around him. But he saw it now. A hoard of cannibals had obvious descended. Slightly impressed by the coordinated attack, since Jack was sure all cannibals, at least all the ones he had meet up to this point, were lunatics.

It was a bit hard to tell between the deranged cannibals and the flailing victims, but quickly Jack started to pick off the ones closest to where he was on the outskirts of the town. One gentleman took notice of him and came stumbling over to him.

"Now sir," Jack eased the man as he fired his third shot into the guy's chest. This was unnatural! He wasn't even flinching. Jack swore and wasted a few seconds making sure his head shot aligned perfectly. Even then, the cannibal managed a few steps before he crumpled.

"Well fuck," Jack said as he shared a look with the horses. Making his mind up, Jack dropped down from the saddle and went about removing the tack from the skinny brown nag with a bit of pained groaning involved (from Jack). Even with three or so cannibals starting to shuffle towards him, Jack continued quickly on a task he'd done a million times before. With saddle and bridle dumped in the mud, Jack slapped the brown horse on its backside and encouraged it to get the hell out.

"Go join the mustangs you skinny nag," he shouted as it returned to him confused. Spinning around Jack was careful to aim for a head shot with the clumsy cannibals, he even used his red vision (which Jack was sure everyone possessed, even though no body spoke about it - or knew what he was talking about when he asked) with one that was limping a bit more erratically than the others.

Jack swore as he climbed up onto the wet and - er, was that blood on his horse? Stupid horse thief - broad back of his horse. He needed to get to where he had left his other guns and rounds of ammo. Unfortunately that was in the center of the cannibal infested town.

Eyeing all the dark wriggling bodies between him and the pig stys, Jack spurred his horse along the outside of the town hoping to find a less crowded way to enter. Even though his brown mare was terrified, she did what he asked of her as she had been trained to do. This blind obedience thing was serving him pretty well right now.

He didn't waited for her to slow as she darted from the tree line and along the fence of the corrals, already leaving the saddle before she started to skid to a halt beside the pig stys. He stumbled a bit as he tried to keep his feet under him, but ran off after a rather seamless dismount. He congratulated himself as he bounded up the stairs and into the attic. Finding his sniper rife Jack ripped open the window and knelt down on the creaking floor boards. Using the higher vantage point, he set about dispatching tens of cannibals and possibly one normal person (by accident). He noticed that a few people were doing the same thing from a roof down the doctor's way.

There seemed to be no end to them. It was like they were multiplying. Jack's scowl deepened when he heard the staircase rattle. He quickly lunged across the room and picked his shot gun up from the crate by his bedside. Training it on the doorway, he was fully prepared for a cannibal. He was not, however, prepared for someone that looked like they had been rotting in the ground for ten years. Shooting it straight to the head, the power of the shotgun sent the corpse reeling back and toppling over the railing.

This was getting weirder and weirder. Reloading his sniper and, on second thought, his hunting rifle as well Jack went back to the window. He rested the spare rifle against the wall by his feet while he used the other to dispatch cannibals and corpses by the wagon load, switching over quickly when the rounds ran out.

He heaved the greatest sigh of relief in his entire life has he shot dead the last remaining crazy. Taking a few minutes to dress and equip himself properly Jack hurried for where he knew the other survivors where on the roof a few buildings down. He couldn't see his horse anywhere. Whistling loudly, Jack wasn't surprised when she never came for him.

Whatever, he could mourn a loss of $250 later. That's what he gets for buying a horse from the stockyard.

Walking quickly down the street, Jack couldn't resist looting a few bodies for much needed ammo. As he neared, Jack cried out to the few people arguing on top of the roof. A lady screamed in fright and one of the men turned around and tried to shoot him.

"Jesus Christ!" Jack yelled as he jumped to the side, "I ain't no cannibal!"

"He's bit!" the lady screamed, pointing at where blood from Jack's torn wounds had stained his bandages.

"That wounds from a boar earlier today ma'am," Jack said with a little disdain in his voice. Fancy that, shooting at him! Sure he looked like a rather wild character, but he was pretty sure he didn't look like a cannibal.

"Sure, sure, that's what they all say," another one of the survivors called down to him. Jack counted four guns being trained on him and felt dread starting to gather in his gut. "Then they start twitching, and screaming, and before you know it that 'normal' person is one of them!"

"What are you talking about you crazy son of a-" the lead speaker opened fire on him, which seemed to be the signal because everyone else started having a shot at him too. Jack cut his loses and sprinted for cover.

"This is why I hate Theives' Landin'," he shouted, cursing the gods as he held onto his hat and ran for dear life into the Ghost Forest. Gun fire following him all the way out of town.

///Back In Beecher's Hope///

So that was the story of how he ended up having to walk home through the night. Traumatic series of events aside, he was barely recovered from being attacked unawares by a boar that morning - all in all he really wasn't in the mood to entertain the corpse in his bathroom.

"Look this really mustn't be hygienic. Can you leave? I've got several open wounds here that shouldn't be within five meters of you if I can help it."

The corpse's head tilted to the side. Jack wondered what there was to be confused about as he rattled about the medicine cabinet. Hand finally grasping what he was looking for, Jack turned to the corpse and resisted the urge to smack his head against a wall.

"You are aware that you're a corpse, right? You're a dead body that's been reanimated because of some weird cannibal voodoo that went down in Thieves Landing tonight. I should know - I was there! Nearly died! Although... would I have died or been magically reanimated straight away?" A pause as Jack mulled that idea over. "And I lost my horse, I nearly had that thing for a week!" He was almost getting to the point where he actually felt attachment to the thing. He had even decided on a name. Tracey.

Teach him to be attached to horses. They ran off on him the second he took his eyes off them. The very second.

Jack unraveled muddy bandages, wiped his skin clean with a washcloth, and started covering his wounds with the white powder of the phenol. He had quite a large jar of it, so felt safe in being liberal with the use. The corpse had retreated a few steps and was leaning back against the far wall - enough space between them now for Jack not to feel like his wounds weren't being contaminated by dead-person spores. He then rattled around and found a stash of bandages. Instead of wrapping them on straight away, he bundled them up and took them out to the kitchen area to steam them over the kettle. Ma would be proud of him.

The corpse followed quietly. Jack found that ignoring him while also keeping one eye open in case he went crazy was a hard feat. He decided to interrogate instead.

"Oi so you pop out of the ground close by? You said this was your house... you use to be the owner or something. I don't know who owned the place before my old man bought it - but you must be one of em, eh?" The corpse was inspecting the dinner table quietly while Jack talked. It was hard to read a near-skeleton's emotions, Jack was finding out.

"Aye... " the corpse moved across the room to inspect the empty fireplace. "I owned this. How many years... it been? 1940?" Jack snorted loudly and nearly tipped over the kettle.

"It's 1915, ya loon."

The corpse stilled.

"Farm not in the family... for long... then?" Jack turned away from folding the bandages to regard the corpse with an amused look.

"Nah, not long at all. My old man was a hopeless farmer - couldn't make weeds grow let alone a pasture. He went and got himself killed by some Blackwater gang - owned them money or something. Eh, the bank took it. I've been out west these last few years, bounty hunting and stuff. Got enough money and thought it would be nice to buy it back. Was dirt cheap too."

"Hunting?"

"Yeah, had to work off the family debts and all that. Officially I'm also a member of the military, 'territory marshal' they call it, ha, get a nice salary for it, so I don't really give a shit." Jack crossed his arms and shrugged. The corpse looked terribly confused - he supposed the world must have changed a lot since he died.

"Territory... marshal?"

"Yeah its like... a bounty hunter that's employed by the law. It's good for me because technically I rank above the common lawman, only sheriffs and their deputy's can order me around. That's a lot of fun."

The corpse shuffled back over to the dinner table, likely so they could inspect Jack more closely. Those empty eye sockets were a bit unnerving.

"Don't look like a lawmen."

"As I've already explained, it's all technically. If the authorities want to pretend that I run around collecting criminals to 'keep the peace' instead of 'collect bags of cash' then I'm more than happy to indulge then and accept the wages they offer me. The perk of being able to flash my badge and name around in towns and get lawmen to leave me the fuck alone is nice too." Steam was rising off the kettle now, Jack turned to start sterilizing the bandages.

"When I was alive," the corpse paused and looked down at this own skeletal hand, moving his bony fingers about. "I wasn't too friendly... with the law."

"Ar yeah? Don't worry about me as long as there isn't a bounty on your head. You can tell me what cheeky things you got up to back in the day Mr Corpse."

A long silence passed. Jack assumed he wasn't going to get an answer and so pottered away without a care, sterilizing the bandages with up most care.

"There won't be a bounty." The corpse laughed, dry and wheezy because of his half-missing throat, "there no bounty... anymore."

"You actually had one? That's pretty real deal sounding. Lucky you don't anymore or I'd take you in, yeah," they shared a laugh, well, Jack laughed, Mr Corpse seemed to sober up. Jack started wrapping the first sterilized bandaged around his torso.

"Yeah?" Mr Corpse said like he was testing out the word.

"Well, I need all the money I can get. I'm trying to start a new life on this ranch, but change isn't cheap." Here Jack narrowed his eyes at his pot of boiling water. "How did the ranch life go? For you, I mean, on this land."

"Quiet," the corpse said. "Cows, mustangs for market. Nice." He spoke of obvious fondness for his old farm. If that wasn't an opportunity Jack didn't know what was.

"Would you be open to starting again? I don't know much about farming, but you do. You can live here, in your old house free of charge, and we can work together to get her back to her old hay days. That sound like something you'd be interested in?" The corpse straighten up abrupt as Jack spoke.

"That..." there was some shuffling on the corpses part. Nervous shuffling? That's a bit weird. "You messing... with me?"

Jack tucked his bandages close and walked over to the corpse, the dinner table stretching in between them. He searched that disgusting face and found someone he could trust under it all. Call him crazy.

"Nah, honest. Who better to help me get started than someone whose worked this very land? Sounds only logical to me."

"Thank you. This... if it's only 1915, my family... I could find them-"

Jack decided to cut him off right there, one hand going up to silence him.

"Maybe not buddy. Might freak them out if you turn up looking like this. You're undead, okay? People are going to shoot you the instant they see ya. If you leave for the shops or something your gonna die. I can't even guarantee your safety on my own land, if some undead hunting party sweeps through and lines you up. Just... be aware of your state, okay?"

"Yeah... yeah."

Of course he was right. Now, where was that tin of jerky he left in the cupboards? He was starving.


	2. John

John remembers failing.

He remember realising he will likely die, and then walking through the barn doors to the waiting party of law men and dying.

There is pain, like being stabbed and exploded open, but there is also the sick sensation of blood loss and the terror of drowning, not through his nose or mouth but right in his lungs as they fill with blood from his punctured heart.

It beats rapidly in fear and drowns him quicker.

He locks his limbs and tries to stay upright as long as possible. He looks into the eyes of the men who have come for him.

The farm is covered in bodies, thirty, forty - who knows. The lawmen look appropriately uneasy as they hold their breath and wait for him to fall.

When John Marston falls backwards into the ground and finally blacks out, he does not think of the small remains of his family who still live, riding away for their lives.

Abagail and Jack will be fine, he knows this.

Instead he thinks of his dead family, all the grief he’s locked up and ignored at each and every death spilling out.

John Marston passes away a home-sick man, wishing he could take it all back, wishing he could be a son, or a younger brother once more and enjoy it for real one last time.

And then he feels the press of dirt against his body like being wacked by a wagon. He instinctively flinches and finds his arms and legs held down by the force of it.

Is this what being buried alive feels like? Javier used to have this insane fear of being accidently buried, John never spent much thought on it but Javier… he used to _plan,_ almost running drills out loud when he got drunk enough.

_Don’t panic._

Well, John’s always been a bit too dense to waste his time with panic, so that’s partly done.

_Start wiggling you’re body. You’ll be fine, the dirt is always loose and easy to climb through after being freshly buried._

This dirt didn’t _feel_ so loose.

After enough time had passed squirming and grunting, John begins to grown resigned to a second death.

Then he realised something.

It is actually rather easy to breath down here. The dirt must be looser than he thought, or maybe there is more air underground than makes common sense. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been wrong.

After realising there is not an immediate danger of suffocation John becomes more calm. He has a while to get out of here - all the time in the world it seems like.

And bit by bit, hour by hour, John Marston returns to the plains of West Elizabeth like a daffodil sprouting from the bulb.

An ugly daffodil, cracked packed soil and emerging head first like the ugliest damn newborn the world had ever suffered to give birth to.

He feels the air like a blessing, kissing his forehead with its freezing winds and driving rain. Lighting strikes over head as the rest of him easily follows through the disturbed earth, completing the terrible birth metaphor all too well.

And John Marston gets to his knees and breathes, dirt flowing out between patchy hair, gnarled fingers and the filthy folds of the clothes he died in.

Was injured in.

“What in the hell?” He tries to say, but all that comes out is a gruesome rasp.

Huh, he was buried with his gun. John feels it clattered against his hip as he tries to shift to his feet.

When he finally stands John is entirely unaware of how terrifying it all looks as lightning strikes once again, casting his rotted face and open flesh in light.

John only sees his own grave, the wooden tombstone engraved with his own name and the all important dates that define a person.

_1873 – 1911_

The rest of the words were carved smaller and more crowded, unseeable in the dark of the storm. He crouches down close and tries to read, running his fingers over the carvings, but can’t work out anything other than ‘father’.

It is lucky it is so dark, because John Marston would not have faired so well if the next thing he saw was the graves that lay either side of his own.

Instead he sees the shape of his house lit up as the next lightning struck, and he longed for his family, so much it felt like dying all over again.

And so he went, cutting the best path down through his farm like he had done it a million times before, with hay bales or hoes or calves in tow.

One of his boots falls off half way there, or more accurately slips off. Stupid boot was half ripped apart. John picks it up and inspects it before tucking it under his arm in disgust. It was no use to his foot now.

Once again, John failed to notice the obvious about this situation.

He reached the back door and opened it, easing instead gently. He did not want to give Abagail and the boy a fright by barging through the door like a mad man. He was still all covered in dirt from being mistakenly buried and… and stuff.

Perhaps he should wash himself off first. Yes, that’s a good idea. John took a few steps towards the bathroom before a voice that sounded exactly like his wife’s spoke up, informing him that if he bought a single spec more of dirt into the house she would send him back into the grave he had just painstakingly crawled out of.

John turns around and heads for the water tap he knows is located on the backside of the house. He finds it after a moment of running his hands along the walls and turns it on. The tap is a bit stiffer than he remembers, but John, like most things, thinks nothing of it.

It takes a damn long time to wash himself clean, mostly because something becomes absolutely clear to John Marston.

His body has changed.

When he splashes a handful of water onto his face his finger tips touch… something changed. He roams and explores it all, heart positively stopped in his chest. Did a bullet hit him in his face, is he maimed and deformed?

John feels a missing nose, disappeared lips and one eye which has entirely gone missing from its socket and just…

Well first he tries to throw up but not much comes out. Once the gut reaction is over he peels shaking hands away and thinks.

It might not be that bad. Maybe he is feeling wrong.

He needs a mirror.

John Marston barges into his house like a mad man, marching straight for the bathroom and not noticing anything else around him.

The mirror reveals it is, impossibly, worse. His skin is mottled and deathly green and not only are his lips gone, but all the skin around them peeled away.

He is sure this did not happen. Did the law men mutilate his body while they thought him dead?

He looks up and swallows as he stares into the darkness of an empty eye socket. Dark and disturbing. John stares and stares and then thinks.

He brings one hand up and covers his remaining eye.

And watches himself.

He blinks.

“Strange,” he grumbles, a part of him second guessing if he covered the right eye but no, there it is plain as day in front of him, only an empty eye socket staring back.

Abagail will know what’s going on. John spins away and leaves the bathroom looking for her, going through the kitchen – which has changed – and the store room – which is a far cry from her standard – and finally their bedroom which is… being used as a store room.

Okay.

John is just slowly backing out and preparing to take a second look at his house when he hears a door open and close, the driving rain briefly louder, and heavy boots hitting the wooden boards before the thunk of bare heels thunk down the hall way.

That was no Abagail’s feet, no quiet Jack’s either.

Uncle… no, wait, Uncle died.

Shit, Uncle died.

John enters the hall way just in time to see the bathroom light flick on, filling the house with a warm glow from its opened door way. Well great, he didn’t want to go interrupting a person in the bathroom.

There were a pair of boots laying sideways by the door, dirty and mean looking.

Who was this person?

They didn’t seemed to be doing much in the bathroom, just rattling around in a cabinet or some such. The more time they spent fussing about silently the more John felt the creeping sensation that this person should not be in his house.

He needed to confront this person, a thief perhaps taking advantage of the noisy storm, or maybe someone he knows taking refuge from the storm.

John didn’t think anyone he knew would be so… liberal of their use of his house however. He ran through the list of friends he knew were alive, then through the list of ones were a body was never found.

John drew his dirt-loaded gun and silently prowled forward, focused on the task at hand.

The intruder – a filthy man – was most definitely rifling around in the bathroom cabinets just as John suspected. He didn’t look much of an intelligent thief however, more like one of those crazed cave dwelling outlaws who used to run through Roanoke Ridge barefoot at night.

John wasn’t too fond of those guys, and he weren’t too fond of this squatter looking gentleman.

He took his definitely-not-in-a-state-to-fire gun and creeped in behind the man, getting as close as he could.

Turned out he could get very close indeed, very close. This guy wasn’t paying attention at all. You would think if you were breaking and entering you would at least cast a few fugitive looks around you – and avoid turning on lights and stomping around like this idiot had.

Gees, it had to be bad for John Marston to be calling you an idiot. John snapped to attention when the man’s hand headed straight for a razor blade. He pushed the barrel of his gun against the man’s head.

“Drop... the... razor,” he growled, voice still a little too rough to be clearly understandably but the criminal seemed to get the message just fine, freezing and releasing his hold on the razor blade.

"What ... are you doing ... in my house?" he growled at the idiot. They took entirely too long answering, seeming to be taking a deep breath through their nose and glaring off into the wall like this was all some big inconvenience.

John did not like the look of this guy. He was way too comfortable with being held at gun point.

"You're house? This is my house you fucking idio-" John slapped his hand down on the guy’s head, driving the crown of his skull into the edge of the sink. He had built this house with his bare hands, he had worked the hard years to pay back the debt for this house, he had raised a family in his house, this was _his_ house.

"Fuck,” the man cried, hand going to his bleeding forehead and split eyebrow as he leaned heavily and weakly on the rim of the basin before crumpling down into a crouch, cradling his head low and almost touching his knees.

"Can I not get a break this week," the intruder snapped from where he crouched before John. He turned to John and glared. God, this guy looked mean. "Argh, what, another one?”

John eyed the crazed man warily. Was he seeing double after being hit against the sink?

“Where did you crawl out from, you sorry piece of shit?" the man threw his arms out as he cursed, making John almost flinch from the sudden movement before he noticed the man’s hands were empty of any sort of weapon.

Why was he acting this way? The guy had been caught without a hope mid-crime in another man’s home. He should be sweating bullets and rushing out the window not… arguing.

"Why are you in my house?" John asked the dirty loon, trying to get back on track. The squatter just hissed and pressed a hand back to his bleeding head. The idiot then let his feet slip out from under him and sat down entirely on the floor, looking more beat up by the second.

He looked… tired.

Just as John was preparing his next question which went something along the times of _do you want me to shoot you_ the injured man draw his own gun from his holster and held it high and stable, inches from John’s face.

The man eyed him from behind the gun and John couldn’t help noticing once again how mean this guy looked, like he would massacre a town if a waitress didn’t serve him quick enough.

Then the criminal gave one dry chuckle, not helping in John’s silent assessment of his sanity at all.

"Look don't go thinking your immortal because you've been resurrected or whatever. I've put down a few of your kind tonight already," the man pressed his free hand to his skull again, cursing under his breath, but his eyes never left John.

Suddenly the guy stood, his eye softening and flicking over John as some idea seemed to whirl away in his mind. John realised the man was taller than him.

Whatever was going on in the crazy man’s mind, it passed gradually. Whatever he was searching for no where to be found. Instead John found himself almost being dismissed like a school child.

"Look this really mustn't be hygienic. Can you leave? I've got several open wounds here that shouldn't be within five meters of you if I can help it."

John tilted his head at the intruder, then watched in disbelief was the man went back to rattling about the medicine cabinet, gun lowered as quickly as it was drawn. It was strange. John can’t really remember a time his presence was treated with such a clear tack of fear.

The nut job turned to him and raised one eyebrow like this was all some… some exchange over a bar.

"You are aware that you're a corpse, right? You're a dead body that's been reanimated because of some weird cannibal voodoo that went down in Thieves Landing tonight. I should know - I was there! Nearly died! Although... would I have died or been magically reanimated straight away?"

It was a lot. To take in. And thinking had never been John’s greatest strength according to everyone who knew him. It did make sense. He’s come back from death. A well and truly and proper death. A feeling started to churn in John’s non-existent gut, a rolling swell of sadness and acute mise-

"And I lost my horse, I nearly had that thing for a week!" John’s head snapped up to stare at the other man, who looked up to the ceiling and sighed in utter defeat.

John sneaked a look up the ceiling too, but there was nothing of note up there. His attention was drawn back down to the man when he started pulling at his stomach and unravelling his skin, good god what sort of horr- oh wait, those were muddy bandages. John noticed for the first time that the man did not look like this normally, but was in fact filthy all over. Under the bandages lines of white skin was revealed.

It was sort of memorising to watch the man try to clean up his wounds. Everytime John thought he was done, the man moved on and revealed a new cut or row of bandages under the mud.

This guy was in a poor state of health. John felt remarkably better about retreating to the far wall, relaxing back and keeping watch.

So he had died, and now he’s alive. How much time has past? Why did this strange man live in the house and not a Abagail and Jack?

As John was mulling this all over the other man stomped past with a ball of new bandages in his arms. John straightened up and followed the man. He needed to… ask questions, or not let him out of his sight, or something.

"Oi so you pop out of the ground close by? You said this was your house. You use to be the owner or something. I don't know who owned the place before my old man bought it - but you must be one of em, eh?" The man had lead them to the kitchen area, and was messing about with the few utensils stored lazily on the counter tops.

John turned to the dinner table. It was smaller than the one Abagail and gotten.

"Aye... " John moved across the room to inspect the empty fireplace, again, everything was different. Emptier. "I owned this. How many years... it been? 1940?" It must have been a long time, for this man to be the owner. Perhaps Jack had farmer here and then sold it once he got older?

The man loudly laughed at him.

"It's 1915, ya loon."

’15?

"Farm not in the family... for long... then?" John asked. The owner turned and gave him a funny look.

"Nah, not long at all. My old man was a hopeless farmer - couldn't make weeds grow let alone a pasture. He went and got himself killed by some Blackwater gang - owned them money or something. Eh, the bank took it. I've been out west these last few years, bounty hunting and stuff. Got enough money and thought it would be nice to buy it back. Was dirt cheap too."

Poor bastard, did in by money. No wonder his son was so rough. He’d probably been tossed out and homeless as a child. John had worked so hard to make sure his family never experienced that. Harder than he’d ever worked during his criminal years combined.

This boys father must have been the one who owned it before John bought it.

"Hunting?" John echoed. There was still enough criminals to make good money off bounties? He supposed its only been four years since he died but it had felt like there was no outlaws left but John Marston for a long time there. It wasn’t the same anymore.

"Yeah, had to work off the family debts and all that. Officially I'm also a member of the military, 'territory marshal' they call it, ha, get a nice salary for it, so I don't really give a shit." The youngster grinned cockily and crossed his arms. _This_ was a territory marshal? He was so… young and… well he was more criminal material to be frank.

"Territory... marshal?" John teased. The tone must have been lost in his destroyed vocal cords because the lad didn’t pick up on the disbelief.

"Yeah its like... a bounty hunter that's employed by the law. It's good for me because technically I rank above the common lawman, only sheriffs and their deputy's can order me around. That's a lot of fun."

Hhm, a whole lot of words. Words, words, words. John moved from the fireplace back to the table. What happened to Abagail’s table? Jack must have taken it to his next house. Where was Jack? Where was Abagail?

"Don't look like a lawmen,” John tried again with the teasing, but again it flew over the lad’s head. The boy looked freakishly wild with all his hair and mud and the stream starting from the kettle shout fogging around him. His eyes glint with a meanness his voice doesn’t possess. John stared at him a bit, not bothering to remember what he was saying.

When there was a moment of quiet again John carefully said his words.

"When I was alive," he looked down at this hand to stare at the exposed bones there. Christ when he was _alive_ , what sort of sentence was that? "I wasn't too friendly... with the law."

"Ar yeah? Don't worry about me as long as there isn't a bounty on your head. You can tell me what cheeky things you got up to back in the day Mr Corpse."

A long silence passed where the young man busied himself running his bandages through the boiling water. Thank god for the silence, John needed to think.

For as long as he can remember his bounty as always brought trouble. Even when it was a measly $2 it cut down his life in the most irritating ways. When it was the third highest bounty in West Elizabeth, it nearly killed him every time he stepped outside the safety of the forests.

"There won't be a bounty," John realised. A bubble of joy rose in him unexpectantly. A dry and wheezy laugh burst from him, "there no bounty... anymore."

No bounty, no filthy bureau blackmailing him, no nothing. Shit, all he had to do from this moment on was create a new name and he would be unrecognisable. Free. Finally, like he had wished and worked for so hard in his last years.

The bounty hunter was talking again.

"- sounding. Lucky you don't anymore or I'd take you in, yeah," he laughed into his drying bandages, picking one up and beginning the wrapping process around his ribs. It seemed the boy was too impenitent to let them cool completely before putting them on.

That was a bit reckless. Stupid.

"Yeah?" John said, in place of not really knowing what the lad was talking about. Himself most likely, if the last ten minutes have been anything to go by.

"Well, I need all the money I can get. I'm trying to start a new life on this ranch, but change isn't cheap." Well if there was anything John could agree with, it was that. “How did the ranch life go? For you, I mean, on this land."

_Terribly. Wonderfully. I won’t do it again. I would repeat it all in a heartbeat._

"Quiet," John finally settled on. "Cows, mustangs for market. Nice."

"Would you be open to starting again? I don't know much about farming, but you do. You can live here, in your old house free of charge, and we can work together to get her back to her old hay days. That sound like something you'd be interested in?" John straightened to attention at the bounty hunters words.

If there was something John had learned through his life, it was to never turn down work.

"That..." John tried to search for the answer. A chance to resume his life just like he left it, but clean, absolved of his sins. Resurrected as a new man. "You messing... with me?"

The hunter shifted his weight, staring at John for several long breaths before deliberately making his way to the table. They stared at each other across it.

For the first time John noticed the man had scars.

"Nah, honest. Who better to help me get started than someone whose worked this very land? Sounds only logical to me."

"Thank you. This... if it's only 1915, my family... I could find them-"

The man put his hand out, and John found himself in a weird position where the movement actually made him stop talking. Maybe it was because the man had just offered him work, maybe because he needed this so much, but that wasn’t why he had obeyed.

John knew deep in his boots that he had stopped because the movement had simply been so purposeful. Raw, assured. For a terrible second John remembered the feeling of standing before Dutch, feeling in awe and small.

"Maybe not buddy. Might freak them out if you turn up looking like this. You're undead, okay? People are going to shoot you the instant they see ya. If you leave for the shops or something your gonna die. I can't even guarantee your safety on my own land, if some undead hunting party sweeps through and lines you up. Just... be aware of your state, okay?"

"Yeah... yeah,” John muttered, still trying to figure out if he agreed with that or not. Probably not, but he could think on it later.

What would his own reaction be if someone he’d seen dead walked up to him rotted and deformed like this?

What would it feel like for Uncle to come through the door with all his skin gone? For Arthur…

Oh, Arthur.

John can see it. Can see a skeleton standing there in the hallway with a familiar hat and world weary frown.

He doesn’t want to see it.

He doesn’t want his family to see him, not until he can fix himself. Sew some of these holes together and get an eye patch or something. Something.

John sits down at the table and buries his head in his hands.

A jar of jerky nudges against his arm. The young man is looking down at him without a single concern or care for John. He nudges the cold glass of the jar against John again, a bit harder this time.

"Eat some, I want to know if you guys can eat or it's only human flesh that dose it for ya," the man says.

"Human flesh?" _Human flesh?_

"Yeah, the cannibals. Remember? You have to be linked to all the cannibal nonsense, I mean, people don't just come back to life all the time, do they?"

John very nearly managed to keep himself from grunting a 'you'd be surprised' before he feed a stick of jerky in between his jaws, biting down on it and yanking it in half. He felt on of his teeth rip out, weak and unteathered, but the rest remained firm.

Oh well, that wasn't too bad considering his overall state.

He swallowed the jerky down the best he could and felt it make it's way down through his insides which John could only assume were rather intact. 

Five seconds later he started coughing, hard. The jerky flew out from the large gap in his throat and nearly hit the bounty hunter in his over-interested face.

"Hopefully that means you can't eat and don't need to eat," the lad said simply. He dusted his hands together like everything was as simple as that and went back over to the stove.

Good lord who was this fool.

Once John felt like he had enough saliva back in his mouth to make up for all the coughing and missing lips he turned to the man.

"What's you're name?" He asked. The man twisted back and gave him a long blank look before turning back to his bandages.

"Morgan," he said. "Morgan Roberts."


End file.
